“Can you believe it? A call came in for a heart, while I was right in the middle of my dinner! People are so damn inconsiderate,” Dr. Chestman mumbled more to himself than to the interns. He splayed the rib cage of young Portman and went for the beating heart.

“Lubb-dubb, lubb-dubb. I love the sound of a beating heart.”

Dr. Chestman cut the young heart away from all the veins and arteries and put the bright red pulsing muscle into a bowl of crushed ice. He replaced Portman’s heart with a mechanical pump.

“Look at these lungs! Never seen a better pair, they shouldn’t be wasted on a Winston 500.” Dr. Chestman removed the lungs and replaced them with bamboo bags. He closed the rib cage and returned him to the care of Nurse Marshall.

“Help me…” Portman’s plea was followed by an inhalation by the Winston 500, and another exhalation that allowed him to say, “…please, help me.”

“Help you?” Nurse Marshall laughed. “We are helping you. Honestly, you young people don’t appreciate anything society does. You should be proud that we gave your heart to a gang member shot down in the streets,” she fiddled with the tubing as she spoke, “and your lungs are up for bid.”

“Please…” The Winston 500 took another breath, “…let me die.”

Nurse Marshall put the empty syringe down and listened to her patient beg for mercy one last time before the medication took effect. She sat down and entered her nursing notes into the computer:

Patient remains in critical condition. Medications tolerated well. Fluid Intake/Output in balance. Occasional moments of consciousness.

to be cont…

The doctor wore a large grin behind his mask as he led his interns further, “Now, I can get at the kidneys. Oh, what beauties! Look at the shape, perfect texture. I’d like to take these home for kidney stew.”

No one said a word.

“Nurse, where are these kidneys going?”

She entered Portman Kidneys into the computer. “They’re going to Bean Hill Research Institute. They will be used as an exemplary model in the continued study and progressive developmental creation of synthetic kidneys for the world at large.”

“I know many of you are wondering why I removed the entire body of flesh that covered the abdominal cavity,” the doctor said. “That is because the hide of the harvest body can  be used in a number of ways.”

All eyes in the operating room were on the gaping cavity of Portman’s body, as Dr. Thrash coated the freshly harvested area with a clear latex spray.

Young Portman lifted his heavy eyelids to find Nurse Marshall standing over him. She was reaching up to change the IV solution. He waited for the Winston 500 to exhale before he could ask, “How long have I been here?”

“What difference does it make? We’re taking good care of you. We’ve given your liver to an alcoholic. Your stomach went to an old man. Your kidneys went to research and your intestines were donated to the hospital kitchen to be used as sausage wrap.”

Before his eyes rolled back in his head in a drug-induced escape from reality, he managed to utter a few words, “Oh my God…” The exhale of the Winston 500 prolonged the word G-o-d, as it escaped from Portman’s lips.

to be continued…

Dr. Thrash said, “Look at this bright red liver, a prime example of a healthy organ,” as he lifted the liver from Portman’s body. “The perfect replacement for our recipient, Mr. Jack Daniels, an alcoholic of thirty years.”

He placed it in the shiny stainless steel receptacle as he said, “Note the texture, the smooth appearance of a youthful liver. This will give Mr. Daniels another thirty years to drink.”

Several of the attending physicians chuckled at what they assumed was the humor of Dr. Trash.

“Take a look at this stomach!” The doctor pointed his bloody latex-covered hand at the organ, before snipping it away from the alimentary canal. “No ulcers eating away at this baby,” he said as he dropped the organ into another shiny receptacle. “A second replacement for old Jim Dandy.”

“It doesn’t make sense to keep the intestinal tract inside the harvest body, once you have removed a stomach for transplantation.” With that said, he lifted the entire intestinal track from the abdomen of his patient and passed it along.

The doctors standing around Portman looked like they were holding up a snake, as they slipped the human colon into a large container on the floor. “It makes an excellent sausage wrap for the meat they serve here at the hospital.”

to be continued…

The medical control over people’s lives in this country is unbelievable!

The people must rid themselves from the tyranny that dictates everything that is human. The pharmaceutical industries are the hands that hold and manipulate the American yo-yo, the tethered people who are allowed to go so far and then must return, again and again, to the hand of control.

Pfyser, a giant among giants, has declared to the American people, through its control of the media and power to advertise and propagandise on television, that “smoking cigarettes” is a treatable medical condition, which can be cured by going to your doctor, who will play his part in the overlording of the American people by agreeing with the pharmaceutical drug lords and writing a prescription (one more pill!) which Pfyser has created specifically for the treatable medical condition the industry has declared.

Smoking existed long before the written word, it is a natural inclination of the species!

Again, Spencer had to wait for the breathing machine to exhale before he could get the words out, “I was shot down…”

“What does that have to do with anything? You had no business being in the air in the first place. You could have hurt yourself, and you did!” She put the syringe down on the tray and picked up another to inject into the IV solution that dripped from the suspended plastic bag, into the tubing that led to her patient.

“You are just one more of the increasing number of people who can’t do a thing but rely on others for everything. You really should have been more careful, Mr. Portman.” She smiled at the helpless young face and watched the effects of the medications pull him back into unconsciousness.

The Winston 500 continued to breathe for young Portman, now a living cadaver with healthy body parts to be harvested for individuals suffering from cancer and other maladies or life-threatening injuries. The structure of his social existence was built on the perpetual drive to transfer body parts from one human being to another. It was a thriving industry that provided a stable financial opportunity for doctors and nurses.

As the weeks went by, Portman opened his eyes to see an entanglement of tubes and wires. Nurse Marshall was always there. She always spoke in the same manner and always forced him to return to a drug-induced sleep, that never closed his ears to the sound of the Winston 500.

to be continued…

Portman was officially put on life support at 3:52 in the afternoon, when the Winston 500 was attached to the trachea implant sewed into young Portman’s neck just below the vocal cords. The Winston 500 was the updated and modified, dynamic and compact, respiratory-tested breathing machine in vogue, at the time.

Meanwhile, a team of specialists studied the x-rays to determine the precise sight of the breakage, so as to consider how to salvage the life of young Portman who had yet to regain consciousness. They  planned to repair the break in the neck, it was the proper thing to do considering young Portman was a helpless quadriplegic.

It was days before Portman was allowed to fully enter consciousness. He opened his eyes and tried to discern the foreign objects and bleating sounds that surround him. He remembered the down spin of the glider and thought he was on the ground before everything came into focus.

A spark of panic flashed inside his gut.

“Good morning, Mr. Portman. I’m your nurse. I really want to say you are a very lucky young man, Spencer Portman. You could have lost your life in the unfortunate accident you had over the weekend.” Nurse Marshal stood beside the bed tending to the bottles, tubs, wires, machines, and the array of medications to be given.

Spencer had to wait for the breathing machine to exhale before he could execute the words from his mouth, “I can’t feel anything…”

“Of course you can’t, you snapped your neck. You can’t do anything, ever again, young man. Not a thing. What a shame,” Nurse Marshal said as she injected medication into the stent in her  patent’s arm. “You’re such a nice looking boy, but you did bring it on yourself with your hand-gliding.

to be continued…

“Easy,” said one of the rescuers, as they freed the unconscious body from the entanglement and placed the young man on the stretcher. “Keep his heart and lings from expiring while I get this baby back to the nest,” the rescue pilot commanded.

The rescue workers applied the approved techniques of cardiopulmonary resuscitation, as the helicopter wound its way back to the rooftop of the hospital, where all spinal cord injuries were taken. Once young Portman was safely delivered to the Spinal Cord Injury Emergency Examination Room, all necessary steps to sustain life were executed judiciously and with expedience.

“Observe how the manipulation of the neck has been hampered by the break, the doctor spoke to a spattering of young men and women fresh out of medical school.

The interns watched Dr. Smart in complete silence, as he rolled Portman’s head about from one hand to another, like it was a bowling ball that hung from the young man’s neck.

“Okay, let’s get him on his back.” The doctor picked up a scalpel after palpating the flesh of Portman’s neck and said, “Now, watch a master at work.”

He made an incision near the base of the neck and bright red blood came into contrast with the beautiful tan-colored skin. Dr. Smart inserted the end of a plastic tube into the trachea and stitched the skin to the small eye-holes attached to the tube. He was careful to stitch the taunt skin tightly to the foreign object too often rejected by the human body.

“This new design in trachea implants makes stitching a much easier job.”

to be continued…

Spencer Allen Portman was one step ahead in the specialized game of life.

He was a bright child who was always at the head of the class. While young, he learned to speak, read, and write in both English and Chinese. He used mathematics to build spacial palaces with the endless building blocks given to him by his parents. School was hop, skip, and a jump through the halls of education. His active mind was balanced with an energetic physical body.

Spencer kept himself healthy and tone through athletic activity. He climbed mountains and rock walls with stamina and precision. He always reached the summit of any challenge beneath his feet. He even flew through the air with the aid of a hand-glider and never failed to land steadfast and sturdy. That is, until the unprecedented day his glider was shot down from the sky by a spree of bullets.

It happened in the spring, at the annual hand-gliders exhibition.

People screamed and scattered when they heard the automatic weapon spray bullets  above the excitement of their community, as they watched in awe the experienced gliders move through the air. No one saw the ill-fated glider being riddled by the bullets, but they did see Spencer motionless on the ground, his neck broken.

Panic spread through the crowd like a plague and someone made the fatal call.

In a matter of minutes, a skilled team of emergency rescue workers poured out of Mercy Hospital’s helicopter that touched down to the ground, close to the motionless body of young Spencer Portman splayed out on the earth like a broken toy.

to be continued…

The world will see another new year for all of us to try our best to improve the way we treat ourselves and others, a new year in which the desire to establish peace on earth begins in the tender heart of the peacemakers. I bid thee goodwill and comfort within.

I am happy to see that you are still with me.

I think it is time for another short story from my collection. See you over in Loving Stories for the unfolding of Spring Harvest. Medical satire once again.

I know it has been a while, but projects demand my time and troubles erupt with my health every now and then. I hope those of you interested in After the Accident enjoyed the story. I am glad to see that you all are still out there taking a look at my website.

The state of Washington has freed her people to have their God-given right to have a dignified death, when a terminal illness eats away at their viable life. Montana is currently waging its own battle to secure the freedom taken away from the people by organized medicine.

Dr. Kevorkian never made it to congress, but Michigan did permit the people to have the benefits of medical marijuana. They rob us of our freedoms and cause us to wage all out war to get fragments of our freedoms back.

Next year, America will become an Obamanation. Let us hope that the promised change will help to free us from the insidious medical tyranny that has encompassed our cultureless culture.

Will be back again, soon.